


Buy the Jacket

by oceansinmychest



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: Crack, F/F, One Shot, Rare Pair, Season/Series 06, Smut, crack ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 20:52:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16291583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: They both fucked with and fucked Joe. Old news now. [ Alternate scene in 06x06 "State of the Uterus" ]





	Buy the Jacket

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why my brain works this way. Yet, here we are. Anyway, I really enjoyed the seasons that Fig and Linda shared. My mind wandered and this happened to be the end result.
> 
> This is meant to be ludicrous quite honestly.

 

Natalie Figueroa doesn’t give a flying fuck. Correction: she gives a fuck about _herself_. Bone thin with a glare to kill, she neglects a gimmick called a positive working relationship. Her veiny hand hovers on the mouse which clicks, clicks, clicks. She opens more tabs than she can count. That jacket **begs** to be bought.

A modern-day Calpurnia attempts to neglect the dream of her husband’s doomed political failure. If only a statue of him would bleed out in a million places. It’s easy to ignore the stocks which dwindle by another point. The glowing monitor lures her in as she flicks through her options in beige, navy, or black as night. She ignores Linda with her fixation for Panera.

The way Miss Connecticut chirps in her a-line navy dress grates on Fig’s patience. Linda intends on correcting the mistakes of her predecessors. She treads the fine line of bureaucracy. She pulls the strings now. Fig’s dust. So she thinks while she sips on her green tea.

The She-Devil’s good at her job, Fig will give her that, but she’s so damn _tired_ of hearing about prison minutiae. Rolling her eyes, she clicks her teeth. Bony shoulders rise high and taut, fraught with tension. A knack for bickering urges her on. Christ, she envies that hot, tight body.

“Without the wig, you could pass for Sinead O’Connor.”

Smug and debonair, Fig musters a wry smirk. Seasoned Counterfeit has the gall to guffaw as she rounds around the cluttered desk. Intruding on personal space, a shifting partnership caters to their querulous nature.

Liabilities: the lot of them.

In her blue and white patterned blouse (gaudy florals mistaken for god-awful bees), Nat has no shame. Her curled tongue runs along the roof of her mouth. She pops her swollen lips, sweetened by the gloss that touches them.

“Just buy the jacket,” Linda snips.

“Are you going to fire me?” That camel in gaudy print snarks, her head tilted to imply that she gives no fucks.

Linda lets out a bark of a laugh. Synthetic dark curls (which she claims to be _real_ ) fall over her shoulder, shaken free from the loose up-do. Hot breath nips at the nape of her neck. Fig remains frigid, iron inside and out. Curse that bra strap which slithers down as an open invitation.

“Replacing you would compensate for the recent budget cuts.” 

Linda baits her. Fig presses. They need something to feel something. Snide remarks take quite the turn. How quick women are to nip, claw, and bite at one another. As a mirror to each other in some Lacanian gesture, but neither think of that. It’s a matter of getting off.

They both fucked with and fucked Joe. Old news now. Paperwork slides off the desk, the monitor neglected in the budding chaos. Skirts and dresses come apart. Prada and Armani are ripped off, only to be replaced again. Exposed, lilac and maroon lingerie cling to their bodies, albeit loosely, threatening to melt away.

Coiling like serpents, wrestling from a frustration fueled desire, they make a mess of one another, tearing apart the seams. Plump, Botox-injected lips scrape Linda’s. She has always contemplated getting work done, but has never found the time.

“Is this for Joe?” Linda snarks while she takes the time to finger the lacy lingerie that clings to angular hips which cut like a knife. “Still a little side piece? You can be all mine now.”

Deep down, Nat cares about the prick. At the mention of Linda’s past with Joe and the crude insult now, she feels a pang of jealousy. It stabs at her, twists her insides.

Fig sneers. Annoyance allows her to wrestle for the upper-hand. She pins her superior to the desk by the wrists, ragged panting indicative of a struggle, hips pressed against hips.

“Gucci.”

She acts as if this or Calvin Klein is the answer.

“A shame,” Fig rasps, “That I don’t have a cock like Joe’s to fuck you with.”

“Next time,” Linda plans and promises.

There’s already enough big dick energy to go around.

Frenzied fingers claw, scrape, and prod. Touch spiders across a toned thigh, inching towards that temple, that warm, wet place. Absorbed and self-involved, it’s like fucking herself. A quick flick to get off.

Relinquishing her hold, she returns to her comfortable, leather seat and takes her proper place between Linda’s thighs. Her tongue curls and teases, a reminder of Ferguson’s momentary tryst in prison. Crying out, she reaches for a fistful of Fig’s salon-styled curls. She tugs, she pulls, she calls her every name in the book.

Tomorrow, the jacket will be bought to replace the torn blouse. It was only a click away, after all.


End file.
